


Six Years

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Hiya! I'd love to request a fic. A hurt comfort fic, set in late Beatle-years, where everyone hates on Paul, except Ringo, and he tries to cheer him up. Does he success? (Bromance. No slash, please.) Thank you so much! ^^'. Paul breaks down in front of Ringo.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Paul's opinion of Yoko in this is NOT shared by me. I adore her, both as a person on her own merit and in terms of her relationship with John.

“Yeh, and fuck you too, Paulie.”

John was gone with that final biting retort, and George cast a look back at Paul that, thought without the blatant agonised hatred in John’s eyes, was filled with a more cold distaste, and followed him. Paul stood there, fingers clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his palm, and then sat down, head in his hands.

Ringo, who was being ignored at the back as-per what was far-too-usual for his own liking, stood up behind the drumkit.

“Please don’t.” Paul’s voice was so small Ringo didn’t realise for a second it was him speaking, and he paused. “Please, if yer gonna walk out, just go. Just please, _go_.” His voice cracked on the ‘go’, and Ringo paused for another moment. “I can’t handle this, lad. So just go.”

Paul had been a dick recently, Ringo knew that – he had been subject to it. Paul recording over his drum parts – _his own_ – because whatever he did wasn’t enough for the neurotic perfectionist. He had been damn near chasing that Yoko out of the studio – Ringo wasn’t stupid. He knew jealousy when he saw it. Neither of them were queer, but they were in love. He knew that. You didn’t have to want to shag someone to love them like that. And Paul was heartbroken. Hell, they all were, in a way, watching the relationship they’d all had – closer than friends, than brothers, even.

But this relationship could no longer be saved, and they’d all accepted that, all except Paul.

“Paulie,” Ringo murmured, and Paul looked over his hands, up at him. His cheeks were stained wet, his eyelashes dark around his enormous, near-black eyes, and Ringo saw with a moment of shock the young man he’d first met. He’d been twenty, back then.

His heart flipped a little as he realised Paul was only just twenty-six now, and what they’d all been through in that time.

“I can’t keep us together,” Paul whispered, tears flooding down his cheeks. “I can’t do it, Ringo, lad. I’ve tried an’ I’ve tried an’ we’re gonna break up an’ there’s nothin’ I can do…” He broke down, body shaking, and Ringo sat next to him.

“Paulie,” he said uncertainly – he had been so convinced that Paul was some kind of idiot dictator, determined to rule everything they did. When had he stopped thinking of Paul as his bold, bright, brash friend with the lovely smile? When had they all stopped being friends and become begrudging colleagues?

“An’, an’ John’s so in love with that hateful _bitch_ ,” Paul spat, and then began to sob into his knees again. “An’ it’s her fault. It’s his fault too, that bastard,” he snuffled. “He’s all full of acid now with George all the time an’ they’d rather do that than have me there…” He sniffled again, and hugged himself tightly, and Ringo put his arm around Paul. The younger man flinched away, staring at Ringo in alien suspicion, and Ringo felt his stomach sink.

“Paulie, it’s gonna be okay,” he found himself saying. He knew it wasn’t. It was only going to be okay if you regarded the complete and total dissolution of the Beatles and Paul’s possible murder by George and John ‘okay’. “Pull yourself together, lad.”

“What do you know,” Paul mumbled. “You’re on their side.”

Ringo could’ve said so much to that. He could’ve said so much that’d been building up inside him since 1962, since he had been the outsider to join a group of best friends – he could’ve spat out a thousand burning words that would’ve made John’s hissy fit look like a playground boy with a crush talking to the girl he liked. He could’ve ripped Paul apart systematically, because to have the strength to keep in all the pain you’ve been given builds muscles that could tear a city apart – and he didn’t. Instead, he pulled Paul into a hug, and Paul fought only for a second or two before slumping into the embrace and resting his head against Ringo’s shoulder.

“Ringo, is it? Is it gonna be okay?” he asked, and Ringo felt his stomach lurch, before beginning to stroke Paul’s back gently.

“Yeah, Paul,” he lied again, and knew George and John were going to give him hellish flak for this later. “It is.”


End file.
